


Check, Please

by withoutaplease



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 21:41:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4977535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutaplease/pseuds/withoutaplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine trying to have a “no-sex” date with Sam, but he decides you look too good to resist.  (dirtysupernaturalimagines prompt)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Check, Please

          You’re just finishing up your lipstick when you hear the knock at the door.  You grin at your reflection in the mirror and shout, “Come in, it’s open!” down the hall. 

          “Babe?” Sam calls, stepping into your foyer, “You almost ready? The reservation’s in fifteen minutes.”

           You give yourself a final once-over in the mirror and fluff your fingers through your carefully curled hair, satisfied.  It’s been a long time since you’ve had a reason to dress up like this, but if Sam wants a “real date,” you’re going to give it to him. The black patent heels are already killing you, but you grit your teeth and make your way down the hall.  _It’ll be worth it when he sees me_ , you tell yourself.

          He doesn’t disappoint.  Standing at your front door in a shirt and blazer, small bouquet of snapdragons clutched in one hand, his easy smile turns instantly to shock and he stares at you, wide-eyed and speechless.

          You cock an eyebrow at him. _“Babe?”_ you repeat.

          He chuckles awkwardly.  “No good?” he asks.

          “No good,” you confirm, laughing and crinkling your nose.  He doesn’t move, doesn’t stop staring, doesn’t even blink.  After a few seconds, you ask, “Are those for me?”

          He snaps out of it, somewhat.  “Oh, yeah, here.  I hope you like purple.” He steps forward and hands you the flowers, letting his fingertips linger against yours.  Standing close to him like this, you can smell the cologne he wore for the occasion.

          “You didn’t have to,” you say, smiling up at him.

          “I absolutely did,” he says, grinning back.  “I promised you a proper date.  Flowers are part of the deal.”

          “Well, thank you, they’re beautiful.  Let me get these into some water, and we can go.” You turn toward the kitchen, but before you can make it two steps, he catches you by the wrist.  He plants his other hand on the curve of your waist and pulls you in for a kiss.  He’s kissed you hundreds of times before, but this one feels different.  He’s trembling, barely noticeably.  He’s _nervous._

_“You’re_ beautiful,” he says softly.  “You look incredible.”  He kisses you again, and his tongue slips along your lower lip, sending a familiar flood of heat through your chest and low in your belly.  With effort, you pull yourself away.

          “Easy on the lipstick,” you say, giggling, wiping a wet red smudge from Sam’s mouth with your thumb.  He laughs, but he doesn’t let go of your waist.  “Didn’t you say we have a reservation to get to?” you say, as his gaze drops down to the cleavage you carefully selected your dress to display.

          “You know,” he says, letting his hands run down the sides of your hips and come to rest on your ass, “suddenly I’m not that hungry.”

          “Well, _I_ am!” you protest, wriggling out of his grip and retreating to the kitchen. You reach into your cupboard to get a vase, and look back over your shoulder to find Sam standing in the doorway, watching appreciatively.  “Besides,” you say, “this was your idea.  You said you wanted to show me a good time outside the bedroom, for once.”

          “What was I thinking?” he says, smiling dangerously.

          “Beats me,” you say, filling the vase at the kitchen sink and dropping the flowers in, “but it’s part of the deal.”

          He sighs in good-natured defeat.  “All right, you’re right, let’s go to dinner.”

* * * * *

               “What?” you say self-consciously, finding Sam silently staring at you for the dozenth time since you sat down at the table. “Something in my teeth?”

               He shakes his head.  “Look around,” he says quietly.  You look, but all you see are waiters flitting around other couples at other tables, nothing out of the ordinary.  “Everyone’s looking at you.”  You look again and still notice nothing. 

               “I think it’s just you, Sam,” you say with a small smile, taking another sip of wine.

               “It’s not,” he says, dismissively. “You’re easily the most beautiful woman in here.  They must all be wondering what you’re doing here with me.”

               “Stop,” you say, grinning, flushing.  “First of all, you’re just saying that because you’ve never seen me wearing anything other than jeans and a t-shirt.  Second, have you looked in a mirror lately? If they’re jealous of anyone, it’s me, because you’re fuckin’ hot.  So stop.” You look at him pointedly, and it’s his turn to flush.  This time, when a few heads turn to look at the two of you, you notice.

               He lowers his voice and leans in close to you.  “ _First_ of all,” he says seriously, “in case you hadn’t noticed, I can’t keep my hands off you no matter what you’re wearing.” He lays his hand high up on your thigh, right at the spot where your short dress meets bare skin, and squeezes.  “Second,” he says, leaning right into your ear and nearly whispering, “if we don’t get out of here right now, you’re going to give these people a lot more to look at than just your tits in that dress.”  He slides his hand up under the hem of your skirt, and his thumb finds your clit over the satin of your panties.  You gasp and close your eyes, concentrating on suppressing the moan threatening to escape your lips.  He runs his thumb back and forth slowly until you start to squirm, and then suddenly his hand is gone and he’s politely wiping his mouth with his napkin.  He gives you a minute to recover, then turns to you again with an impish grin.  “Well?” he asks.

               You down the rest of your glass of wine in one pull and clear your throat loudly.  “Meet you at the car?” you say, as casually as you can muster, standing up on shaky legs. 

               He nods, bites his lip, and raises his hand, looking for your waiter.  “Check, please!”


End file.
